Walking Memory Lane
by Dragongirl617
Summary: One dead, one bound to life, one flitting on the borders of Earth and purgatory awaiting an unknown fate. This is the story of how one incident destroys life and future, and plunges its victim into the darkness devouring their heart and soul. All in less than ten minutes. Contains ZADR
1. Prologue

_This is the beginning of my newest Invader Zim story. Unlike Blue Lips I cannot guarantee when I can post new chapters, so please bear with me. Enjoy!_

* * *

The sky is black.

It rises, higher and higher, until the freedom above is painted over with the colour of mourning and the stink of corruption, shrouding all beneath in the great coat whose tail sweeps around for watching eyes and all captured in its wake fall, fear and flee. Within the blackened twists - writhing snakes, like the many secrets of the world carried forth by greedy men - hides the panting, the tears, the weakened breaths and the barking of an unseen dog. Somewhere in the wreckage someone weeps, clings, and prays to a god he has only just come to want that all will emerge safe.

Engines sound, he turns his head. The dog has stopped barking and the silence is filled by snapping doors and the footsteps to carry voices of which he cannot determine the dialect. The words curl, cut like knives as they commune with familiars and find the weakened breath he still depends on. An arm lifts, and bleeds the air with the sudden strikes – _One! Two! Three! Four! Five! _  
– and silence, but for a weeping heart.

"Boy. Move back."

His head lifts, eyes open. He sees all; the danger, the obstructions forming feeble shields that only withstand so much. Or little.  
He grits his teeth. "N-no."

_Six! _And pain blossoms like the bud of a rose; red and fat with the promise of further bites. Screams burn his throat like sandpaper but still he is immobile. _"__N . . . no . . . I will . . . not . . . move . . ." _Tears are falling.

A curse, several curses, a swift spitting of alien words . . . and the barking resumes; searing the air hot with snarls and gnashing teeth. More screams distract men from their target: moaning, crying.

"N . . . no . . . I _. . . won't move . . ."_

The words are drowned beneath desperate cries belonging not to man, but the screaming utility to bring the murderous stirrings to an end. More clicks, and _seven!_ is unleashed._Eight! Nine! Ten! . . ._

He soon losses count.

And then arrives the gentle caresses of soft hands and tender voices - the sincere want to help, to protect with gentle whisperings. _Are you okay? What is your name? Where does it hurt? You can let go now. All the blood . . . Tell me where it hurts. It's okay, you can stop crying now._

No I can't . . . I can't stop crying.

He cannot answer, he cannot tell them that pain is faded; walked away as if it has simply grown bored and left him, incomplete. When he lifts his head he sees no faces. In the sky beside the smoke he sees instead, a blackbird, flying free of the constraints of the earth, of the sight of heartless men and he says, _"__H-how lucky . . . I-I wish I c-could fly too."_

He fades to black.


	2. Chapter 1

White sheets. Green jackets. Red blood upon cloth as pure as fresh snow fallen on dead ground. Steel bites, buds scarlet, gives sleep.

He fades to black.

Yelling. The smell of chlorine and laminate and poor man's coffee. Swift footsteps dance astride creaking wheels. The steel is still biting; he sees, when he tries to reach for identical wheels.  
_"__N . . . no . . . Don't leave me . . ."_

He fades to black.

Rushing bodies. The stink of sweat dripping desperate rescue of long dead flesh. _Where is she? Where did you take her?_  
The steel is still biting.

He fades to black.

* * *

The bodies rush less now. Is that because of lack of work, or do they merely no longer see a purpose in assistance? At least, they do not rush around him now; past the confines of the four walls he has come to hate, he does not know if rushing resumes. Though why would it? One life has returned from Death's threshold already – that looks good for them, so why even bother to save the rest?

* * *

A knock, and intrusion comes without a call.

"Excuse us, sir, but might we speak with you about the incident?"

He looks up, expression dripping with venom. Their words are code for, _do it or we shall arrest you._  
He sighs. "Yes, okay."

They enter, sit on cold, demeaning plastic chairs. They do not invite his wraith with uneasy or unwanted small talk, or useless apologies that change not the history of things. "Young man, we have a witness to this terrible incident who has given us her version of events. We would like yours, but first, will you agree to be subjected to a mild dosage of sodium thiopental?"

He almost laughs. Almost. _Trust_ is a made up word; it has no meaning, no bearing in this life but to allow foolish children and besotted couples to live in the belief that there is always someone to depend on.  
He closes his eyes. "Yes, I will."

* * *

When they deliver to him the first piece of news he is sat upright in his bed, watching with dull eyes how many ravens and blackbirds fly past his window, as if to taunt him with a false sense of hope.  
He listens, sees without reaction as they speak. Their tones are low, filled with mourning. Of course there is mourning, to wave farewell to the great mind departed from this world.

"I'm going to sleep now," he says, and slides under the bed covers and does just that.

Later on they bring him the evening meal: chicken swimming in garlic butter, greens and tator tots, which they place on a tray beside his bed in easy reach, beside its neighbor water jug.

They find it all the next morning, untouched, congealed and fit only for starving dogs or pigs. They remove to make room for a new tray.

"I don't want breakfast."

"But sweetie, you need to eat to regain your-"

"I'm not hungry. I'm going to sleep." And he slides under the bed covers and does just that.

When they deliver to him the second piece of news his eyes are not dull - they are already dead, waiting for Death to rip him from his rescued life and drag him into the pits again. He says no words this time, but merely slides beneath his bed covers and goes to sleep, if only to escape the world.

He refuses lunch.

Later, when they deliver to him the third piece of news the paramedic is present; the woman who cut him from the wreckage. The same woman who held his hand all the way to the hospital, who whispered to him words of a soothing comfort and administered drugs to remove his pain.  
He looks in this woman's direction and says, "I wish you'd left me in the wreckage to die."  
Then he slides beneath his bed covers and goes to sleep.

Several hours later, in the youth of night, a nurse arrives to check the IV drip and sterilize his wounds. "This may sting a little," she says, and presses antiseptic into the open sores. He does not flinch nor cry out in pain yet tears are streaming down his cheeks; a hot twist of salted melancholy and sudden discord. Startled, the nurse blinks; her new motherly instincts throb in her chest at the sight of such torment.  
With the wounds tended to and her hands clean again, she perches herself upon the edge of his bed, her hand reaching forth in warming comfort. _"__Ssshh . . . _There, there," she coos, stroking his greasy hair - still matted with dried blood – as she would to her own weeping infant, until the tears run dry and he falls into blackness.

It is the first time since the incident that he has cried.

* * *

Three days later, when they deliver to him the fourth and fifth pieces of news, they do so with such glee on their faces, as though they are ecstatic for him – yet smug victory shines beneath their ugly faces to see the back of him, bloated fat with spite.  
He curls his lip and says not a word. He cannot even go to sleep.  
There is another woman present when they give the news, and she stays beside him even whilst the nurses assist him in dressing himself and moving to and fro the room. Not one of them offers their altruism or even a simple smile. They work briskly, coldly, eager to escape the hatred in his dead eyes.

When the nurses depart at last the strange woman approaches his side; she outstretches her hand to him in friendly greeting. "You must be very hungry, and I know that hospital food isn't that good! We'll pop round to your house to collect your belongings, and then we can go to McMeaties for lunch, would you like that?" And she smiles at him - the first true smile he has been granted in a long time, but so patronizing it makes him sick. She holds the door open for him.  
And the smile withers, rots and dies in face of his lifeless eyes, blazing such hatred they would see her dead at his feet.  
Trembling, her hand lowers.

"I can do it," he hisses.

* * *

_Just so people are aware, starting in the next chapter there shall be quite a few OCs appearing. As with Blue Lips, this is simply to allow the story to flow more smoothly. None of my fanfictions focus around OCs but I just thought to leave a warning so that you won't be taken by surprise. Thanks ;D_


	3. Chapter 2

Mary  
A memory:  
_  
It had never mattered to me that my younger brother of seven years and I did not share the same father, and nor was it important that neither of our dads appeared throughout our lives, from the moment we slid into the world. And why would it matter, when our mother had enough love for both parents?_

_We were not spoiled, Percy and I. Mama was strict, but so loving it seemed at times we lived in a fairy tale. And there to take place of a father was our uncle - Mama's own beloved twin. Oh, they were so alike it made even me laugh - to see photographs of them before puberty corrupted the mind and body, it was nigh to impossible to tell them apart._  
_Uncle arrived to the house almost every day, with his own wife and children astride him. Percy and I would play with our dear cousins, Mama and uncle relived their youth._  
_Happy days, sweet times._

_My uncle. Mama's greatest strength . . . and weakness._

_The fairy tale came to an end. When uncle first vanished Mama was in shock; she lost herself, waiting. Little by little I watched her deteriorate as the dire want to see her other half never was fulfilled. She did not eat, she did not sleep, she hardly spoke to me or my brother. Every day she sat beside the door, waiting for that custom knock to arise, for uncle to stride in with all the arrogance of an Earl above his household, for him to call her fat and laugh and watch their children play. What were we, compared with her other half?_

_Vile as it sounds, I am glad Mama ended her life before they found uncle's body; for if she was to see its condition, to know of the downfall that had befallen uncle, the psychopath who had replaced his brain with that of a squid's . . . I think that would have destroyed her . . ._

* * *

A storm was brewing.

The roaring thunder ripped across the hallways and drummed heavily through the walls like a snarling tiger readying itself for the kill. It shredded the air thick with abuse and gnashing curses, disturbing all, terrifying those who stood within range and sent them running behind locked doors.

"But Miss, why does he get a ground floor room?"

"Because he's –"

"But it ain' fair! We've been here fucking ages and this new guy's getting an awesome room! What the_fuck?!"_

"Language, dear. And I was saying that-"

"I don't care, right? I just think that if some asshole's getting one of the cool rooms it should be -"

An eyelid twitched.  
_Right! That's it!_

Mary slammed her magazine down on her bedside table and leapt to her feet, stomping down the stairs towards the heart of the rage where the fury rivalled her own tremendous strides.  
"Oh my God, will you clam a sock in it! I can hear you all the way up the friggin' stairs!" Mary's voice cut through the anger like a knife through hot butter, bringing instantaneous silence to the cracking abuse.

"Ya dunno what'cha talkin' about, bitch!" The leading boy snarled, pushing his way through the crowd to meet Mary's resistance head on without fear, twitching.  
_Oh God, not this asshole._ Mary's face knotted with disdain; the boy's foul mouth made her cringe, but no one _ever_ told Iggins off for swearing – no, not the poor, little Tourette's boy. It was common knowledge throughout all the children in the home that Iggins's dirty language was almost completely unrelated to his disorder, and that he simply used the condition as an excuse to do as he pleased.

And the staff, blind as they were, saw the name of the condition and nothing more.

Again Iggins twitched, spat out a mouth full of curses as he turned his back on Mary to face the Head of Child Care. "And you ain' answered me yet! This new guy's sixteen and gettin' an awesome room! This ain't _fair!"_ As Iggins whined like a two year old, cries of agreement rose up from the many spectators gathered to watch one of Iggins's famed temper tantrum specials – they ignored Mary now, no one could see the puzzlement writhing across her expression._A new guy's coming here? So soon? _Not that it was unusual to have sudden arrivals take up residence at Treasured Children's home, of course, for had she and her brother not turned up on the doorstep with very little warning? Mary's gaze fixed upon that of Daphne McClemens, the Head of Care at the children's home, awashed in interrogation – and said nothing. Because loathe as she was to admit it, Mary also desired to know why a sixteen year old resident was granted one of the downstairs bedrooms – far superior to that of her own on the second floor.

Sighing, Daphne placed aside one of the many boxes she was attempting to sort through, and shoved her fingers into her mouth. Dismaying wails shrieked underneath the bitter screech of Daphne's obnoxious whistling. "If you'd all just _shut up_ for a moment!" Daphne yelled across the group. "Thank you," she praised, softly this time at the rewarded silence. "Now, I know you're all wondering what on Earth's going on so I'll be brief: Yes, we are indeed getting a new resident. He shall be arriving within the next hour or so. And yes, we are putting him in one of the downstairs bedrooms." Another pause, as venomous whisperings danced through the many teenagers. Daphne gave another fierce look, and quiet ensued again. "I know we normally only put the under seven's in downstairs bedrooms, but this poor lad's been in quite an accident lately. He's torn ligaments in his back and is in a wheelchair." She paused, and turned very slowly, fixed Iggins with a look of heavy disapproval, ignoring the sly grin forming on Mary's lips. "We can't exactly put him in an upstairs room, now can we?"

Laughter burst across the crowd, rained over Iggins's head where his cheeks burned in deep humiliation and he twitched endlessly in time with the curses he unfairly got away with saying. "W . . . why can't get just get an elevator installed?" he muttered.

All at once, Mary's self-control deteriorated in rapid succession and a bark of mocking laughter escaped her lips. "Are you blind, or just _completely_ stupid, Iggins? This building's like, almost three hundred years old, it says so on the plaque outside. It's illegal to add stuff like elevators here. Not to mention hell dangerous!" She calmed her heaving chest, narrowed her gaze. "And here I thought you studied history at skool."  
The laughter continued to pour over Iggins; he swore and snarled and stamped his feet like a raging animal as he stormed from the taunting jeers, who continued to chase after him for further reaction. Mary bit her tongue to stifle the chuckles yearning to escape her mouth. "T-too harsh?" she managed to choke out to Daphne, anticipating a scolding. To her surprise, the older woman shook her head.  
"Nah. It'd do that boy some good to be brought down a few pegs." Daphne sighed, scanning the half-cleaned room where a great many number of boxes and filing cabinets still inhabited the dusty room. "Be a dear and help me clear some of this trash out, will you Mary? Or we'll never get it clean in time."

A sigh left Mary's lips. "Sure, no problem." She reached for the nearest box of children's old skool work and forgotten toys and held the thing on her hip. "But only if I get a better allowance."

And laughed as Daphne threw a ball of paper at her.

* * *

With the room cleared of boxes and swept clean of lingering dust and traces of old cobwebs, Mary retreated back to the sanctuary of her own bedroom where a diet Poop cola and her magazine awaited her return. The rose pink walls of her room were a soothing bolthole from the riot of dust and boys still screaming downstairs. Sighing deeply, Mary flopped down onto her bed, the unpracticed muscles in her arms groaning in relief. She snatched up the fashion magazine and flicked through the pages; with Halloween fast approaching with content exploded with a great many depictions of new outfits on sale: immature costumes of ghosts and witches to steal the hearts of children worldwide, to Gothic black dressed trimmed with lace and ribbons of silver, purple and red.  
_That one would be lovely . . ._ Mary took a grateful swig of cola, her ears sharply tuned to listen for the arrival of the new resident; it was always very easy to tell when a new child had made their debut at Treasured children's home. The air outside would fill with the low rumbling of car engines drawing to a halt, the slamming of doors and the stumbling of feet rushing to and fro.

But no matter the case, _nothing_ alerted the home to a new arrival more so than the ecstatic squeals of toddlers and teenagers alike, for no matter how poor a background she or he had come from, the new child_always_ had interesting belongings to nosey around in.

Uncaring to such trivial immaturity Mary ignored the treasure hunt going on downstairs - until a tremendous cry ignited the air:  
"This guy's got a freakin' _computer!"_

She froze, and in the snap of an eye she threw aside her magazine and rushed down the stairs, her heart thudding in wild excitement. _A computer . . ._ There were computers available for resident access, but connection was slow and the internet filters obnoxiously strict. Only the equally obnoxious Iggins owned his own laptop and internet connection. Removed from his mother's care four years prior the spoiled brat's parent found no time to visit her only son, but instead threw enormous wads of cash into an envelope every week, far exceeding and degrading the allowances of the other children. And such money paid for the extravagant goods.  
Upon entering the hallway Mary felt her jaw drop. Compared to the new resident's technology, Iggins's laptop looked like a four year old's first interactive story book.

Wordlessly chastised, Iggins disappeared into the crowd gathering around the treasure grove. Even Mary, who held materialistic items in something of disdain, pushed her way to the front to admire the impressive computer. Clearly this new boy was from a rich background, to own such lavish materials.

"Jesus Christ, is this guy a friggin' gangster or somethin'?"

"Wouldn't surprise me, that thing's insane!" Percy grinned – Mary's own little brother – leaning across to examine the gorgeous equipment.

_"__Don't touch that."_

The silence that trailed after the boy's bitter words, harsh as a rusty blade, was thick enough to carve with a knife. All eyes fell upon the wheelchair bound boy, driving himself in aggressive momentum towards the group. With his belongings suddenly free of strange hands the anger started to melt from his form, draining out until his was empty.  
"That's a sweet piece you got there, mate. Where'd ya get it?" Iggins called from somewhere in the crowd, utterly oblivious to the boy's disinterest, or the frown carved across Mary's face.  
_Wait, isn't that . . ?_

"Made it," the boy grunted, and fell into silence. He gave nothing to show an interest in his new housemates. His eyes were fixated, seeing only his precious belongings and the hidden ideas within his mind.

_Just like . . .  
_  
Realisation struck like lightning and a beaming grin burst over Mary's cheeks. "Dib! Dib Membrane, right?"

The boy lifted his head, and triumph spread throughout Mary's body, set it tingling as she recognised his giant round glasses and the gravity defying scythe lock. The smile she gave rivalled the warmth of a summer's evening; she took a step forward and offered Dib her soft hand. "I'm Mary, remember me? We went to elementary together!" She beamed, and when he failed to respond she let out a chuckle. "Really, don't you remember? I once dressed a fairy princess at Halloween and -"

"Yes. I remember you," said Dib dully, grey as the winter skies against Mary's warmth. Once, Dib spoke with such energy, fuelled by the many passions that ruled his heart. But now his tone was dead, flat with the aftermath of his recent past. Such unfamiliar coldness took Mary aback, frightened her as a result as she recalled the recent news reports. Her stomach suddenly churned putrid acid and guilt; she cleared her throat in an awkward fashion.

"Um . . . I heard about the crash. I'm really sorry about your dad and sister," Mary murmured, her gaze fallen onto Dib's. Their eyes met only very briefly, and in that instant her blood ran cold, clogged with ice as Dib's eyes flooded her with furious hatred to strip her skin from bone. No longer did his honeyed eyes shine with his curiosity of the world; they sat dull and diluted, as though his life had already come to an end. Behind his glasses something flickered; unpleasant, ill willed.

_Sorry sorry sorry, like that makes everything better._

Dib said nothing; his evil eyes spoke for him.

"Ah, I see you've all met Dib!" A cry rose up and broke through the thick tension. Daphne paused before the group, hands on hips in gentle chastisement. "Now then, why don't you all leave Dib to settle in for a bit, okay?" Behind her soft voice lingered a subtle warning for the band to disperse.  
"Come on," muttered someone, departing with a crowd of bored teenagers at their heels. After one quick glance from her brother Mary gestured with her head, directing Percy from the hallway as Daphne continued her attempt to entice Dib into companionship.

"Come along now, sweetie, I'll help you with your belongings. God, you have so much stuff here! Is that a computer and a laptop? Here, if I take this bag and sit this one on your lap I can still push your chair for you."

"I don't need any help, thanks. I can do it myself." In his chair Dib went rigid, contaminated the air around him in hideous fury. Mary felt the cold touch her, rattle her bones; she paused, and turned towards the frost.  
Oblivious, Daphne blinked, reached for the handle bars. "Don't be silly, I just want to help yo -"

And a gasp ripped from Mary's throat as Dib's hand whipped out like a striking cobra, biting into Daphne's hand and driving her back from his chair.

"I'm not helpless. I can do it," he spat.

* * *

_I'm sure you all recall Mary from the show. In the episode 'GIR goes crazy and stuff' just before Zim replaced the copper's brain with a squid's we see him look at some photographs in his wallet. One of the photos of a little girl looked exactly like Mary, only she was ginger instead of a brunette. I decided to utilize this fact for this story. Also, I have done my homework on Tourette's syndrome; the sparatic swearing is a common symptom, but not mandatory. I have two friends with Tourette's, neither of whom swear. At any rate with read and review :D_


	4. Chapter 3

Every day the alarm sounded, harsh as a nail on glass and alerting all children that they must rise from their dream worlds and ready themselves for the skool day. But not even that, nor the wailing of bratty teenagers, could remove Dib from his bed. Not that anyone tried - not in the mornings at least. Why would the staff waste time on the stubborn new boy when there were so many others to concern themselves with?

Of course, the complaints flooded in.

"It's not fair! How come Dib doesn't have to go to skool?"

"If he's not going then neither am I!"

"Yeah, Miss, why don't Dib have to go?"

Every morning played out the same routine. Daphne or whichever staff member on shift had to explain that Dib's skool transfer papers were yet to be completed and until then, he had no purpose in removing himself from his bed.

"Why can't he just go to his old fucking skool, Miss?"

"Because it's on the other side of the city, Iggins. It's too far away, and please _try_ to tone down on the language."

But even with the house empty of all but staff and the children too young to attend skool, Dib never stepped past the threshold of his bedroom – save to use the bathroom across the hall. At mealtimes trays of food were placed outside his room, but by the time students returned from the skool day his lunches remained untouched, but for a stray sandwich or pork pie stolen by a passing toddler.

On Tuesday after skool, a crowd of teenagers whose ages matched Dib's gathered together and lingered outside his room, shouting obscenities through the door, taunting the damaged boy with subtle jibes at his troubled past.

"Heya little Dibbeh, why don't 'cha come outta there?"

"Yeah . . . We've got ya _back!"_

"Aw, don't be sad, Dibby, we all _car _. . . I mean _care!"_

"Oh my God, listen! The fag's crying!"

Malicious laughter roared through the walls of Dib's room, where in the isolated confinement the steady beat of tears falling onto his desk blistered out from underneath the door and watered the cruel taunts. They grew stronger and more vicious, pounding against Dib's ears until he was seconds away from screaming his torment unto the air – saved as a shadow loomed in and swallowed up the bullies.

_"How DARE you be so horrid, all of you?!_ Get into the kitchen RIGHT NOW, and each of you write him a letter of apology. DON'T YOU _DARE_ WINGE, IGGINS! His dad's just died and his sister's still in hospital, possibly dying too! Dib's had a rough time in a terrible accident! The last thing he needs is to be taunted by obnoxious little brats like you!"

As Daphne's dormant wraith erupted into volcanic rage upon the attackers, she snarled and gnashed her teeth like a wild animal, screaming as though Dib were impaired, asleep or deaf. The boy trembled inside the lonely darkness of his room; his cheeks slick with tears and his teeth grinding together in silent bubbling fury.

_Accident, pff. Yeah, my dad was_ accidentally _assassinated._

* * *

On his fifth day in the home, a Thursday, the staff unanimously decided that Dib had spent too long in isolation. One by one they tried to entice him to come out. Most simply grew bored and walked away, or noticed the fast-flowing time and moved on to other tasks. Others strode in without permission, and fled moments later under the attack of Dib's brutal words and venomous eyes.

Only Charlie, the newest and youngest member of staff managed to persuade Dib to allow him into the room. When he opened the door there emitted a sickly smell of snack food, energy drinks and the artificial strawberry scent of the dye Dib used to colour his half-fringe bright crimson. He perched himself on the edge of Dib's desk, where the youth's eyes were fixed souly on the computer screen, his fingers dancing back and forth the keyboard.

"Come on, Dib. How many Octobers do we get that are still clear skied? You don't want to stay cooped up in here and miss that."

"Yes I do," Dib answered bluntly, very shortly.

"Are you aware that your skool transfer papers will be sorted by Monday? You'll have to go to skool then."

"Yes, but I don't need to leave my room now."

Charlie was twenty-four years old, but he looked and sounded at least seven years younger. Everything about him radiated teenage years; even the conflicting smells of snacks and energy drinks did little to disturb his nose, and it was this very teenage-like attitude that made him such a brilliant social worker. The children loved his carefree and child-like nature, and he loved to work with those who harbored from the same, or very close, generation as he did.  
But he could not deny that Dib was a great challenge to work with – even for him. Charlie sighed, ran his fingers through his thick chestnut locks. "You can't just sit in front of a computer screen all day, living off of popcorn, Cheetos and Mountain Dew."

"Yes I can."

"It's not healthy, Dib."

"I've been doing this for the past two years and I've only had one heart attack."

Sawdust drained the moisture from Charlie's mouth; he felt his heart miss a beat. "That . . . wasn't on your medical records . . ."

"That's because I'm messing with you." The tapping continued.

Another sigh, as Charlie's patience at last, as Dib foresaw, reached its limit. "Fine, clearly nothing I can say will change your mind. Just bear in mind that you won't be able to stay in hear come Monday. Skool is completely compulsory." Almost irritably he stalked out of the room, closing the door behind him and leaving Dib trapped within, with only his haunting memories and the smells of snacks, Mountain Dew and strawberry scented hair dye for company.

* * *

Dib  
A memory:

_At the tender age of four years old there is something especially magical about seeing your mother and father on the TV. Mostly, it was just Dad now, since Mommy had left the laboratory to care for me and Gaz. Her health was a little fragile too, but it's only a cold, sweetie, she told me all the time, and why would I disbelieve her? Mothers never lie._

The documentary we watched showed the past achievements of the great Professor Membrane; his genius was undoubtedly unquestionable. Even at my age I could see that. Gaz had grown bored and gone to bed, Dad was at work. It was just me and Mommy; I leaning on her arm for comfort. Once that arm was chubby with what she called her 'extra love for us' – now it had lost most of its excess fat, as had the rest of her body. To me, it was not a factor to be noted - and neither were her twitches; involuntary movements made every time a certain word or phrase was mentioned on the documentary – 'cloning', 'surrogate', 'singular DNA sample' . . . Words that meant nothing to me. I only watched because I wanted to see Mommy and Dad on the TV. Back then I never noticed her twitches. Or her growing thinness.

Shortly, Mommy departed. "Just popping to the restroom, sweetie," she said, and left. I remained on the couch with my only other friend – an alien plush. They started talking about me and Gaz on the TV then; they called us 'Membrane's kids'. Just Membrane's, as though Mommy had nothing to do with us, and gave statements that planed horrific ideas in my head, filled me with terrors to see my nights overcome with unholy visions of evil. I clutched the alien to my breast, held her there until I heard Mommy's returning trudge. I whipped my head around to her, my eyes fat with building tears.  
"Mommy, what does 'asperreegus' mean?"

Mommy blinked, licked her dry lips. "I'm sorry, sweetie, what?"

"As-per-ree-gus,"I said again, sounding it out slowly. "They, they said it on TV, th . . . that Daddy has a disease called 'asperreegus', an . . . an . . . and that me and Gaz will have it too." I looked up through the deluge beginning to fountain behind my glasses. "Is that bad, Mommy? Will it kill Daddy and Gaz and me?"

Before my eyes Mommy's face was nothing but a blurry mess; when I wiped the moisture from my face I saw naught but her inquisitiveness at my childish words.  
And then realisation dawned. "Oh, Asperger's!" I watched with drying tears as Mommy's face broke into a smile; she dropped to her knees and opened out her thinning arms for my embrace. I obeyed, and in my terror ran to her. "Silly Dib, that's nothing for you to worry about."

"I . . . it's not a disease?"

Mommy tittered, kissed my nose, my forehead, and hugged me again. "No, darling, Asperger's is not a disease at all, and your dad's certainly not going to die, okay honey? Now, would you like some warm milk?"

Her comfort and assurance was all I required then, to know that all was well in the tiny bubble that encompassed my life. I needed no more answers to that and why would I? For I had a mother; mothers do not lie, and they never go away . . .

* * *

**For the moment I am just laying out the foundation for the story; some chapters may seem redundant but, as with my precious story, you will find that I do not write filler chapters. There is always something relevant in each installment. Anyhow, enjoy ;p**


End file.
